


The Kind of Girl You Like

by mermaiddrunk



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaiddrunk/pseuds/mermaiddrunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt that got out of control, really. I believe it went something like </p><p>Joan/Moriarty, Limo sex, Beyonce's Partition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kind of Girl You Like

_Now my mascara running, red lipstick smudged_

 

It feels good to be out of the damp, humid night air and even better to be out of the smoky club-slash-lounge-slash-hotspot for lonely divorcees. It had been too bright, too loud and too full of people two decades younger. But Karin had insisted. “It’s my  _birthday_ ,” she had said. “Let’s go  _wild_ ,” she had said. “Please, Joanie, I  _need_  this,” she had said.” And so Joan yielded.

And promptly regretted it. It wasn’t terrible, it was just not where she wanted to be. Especially after being hit on twice by the same person who seemed too drunk to realise it.

And so she was relieved when she got the text.  _brAk n case. whr R u?_

Her reply _out with friends_ is met with _snd location. wiL coLect U. ur presence is required ASAP._

She‘s on the curb for less than two minutes in a dress just a little too short, in heels just a little too high, feeling just a little too drunk when the the limo pulls up. Like something out of a bad music video, the passenger window descends and Jamie Moriarty, all red lips and smoky eye shadow, with that twist of a smile and an arch of a brow says, “Get in.”

The slam of the door, and she shuts out the night. The lights, the noise, the smells. The deep throb of music from the club can still be heard, though. Some top 40 remix that Joan might have put on her running playlist.

The limo smells like leather. Leather and her. Or whatever perfume she’s wearing. Notes of cinnamon, coriander, honey. It’s almost too sweet, too spicy. Joan’s torn between wanting to gag and wanting to gulp it all down.

“What are you doing here?” The space between them feels thick and oppressive, despite the cool air coming in through the vents. Moriarty pulls and Joan pushes. Two magnets turned on their sides. All atoms and electrons.

“You’re looking delectable tonight, Watson.” Moriarty’s eyes are a cobalt blue. It’s the kind of description you’d read in a cheesy romance novel, Joan thinks. The kind she found stuffed under towels in her mother’s closet when she was a teenager.  _Cobalt blue._

Joan crosses her arms over her chest. She’s building walls, creating a fortress even those eyes can’t penetrate.  But her defences are weak and Moriarty leans back against the opposite door, blowing holes through those walls, blatantly studying Joan as if she was made out of oil paint and stuck in a frame.

There’s something palpably erotic about being the subject of someone’s gaze. Not always, and certainly not with everyone, but here, in this backseat cocoon, Joan feels flushed and dizzy under Moriarty’s liquid stare. The alcohol thrumming through her body does nothing to alleviate this burgeoning arousal. “You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”

Moriarty licks her lips as her eyes flicker between the low dip of Joan’s collar and her mouth, pulled into a thin line of displeasure. “Sherlock sent me,” she all but purrs.

 Joan tuts. “Wrong answer, try again.”

“Well, he was instrumental in me finding you.” She hands Joan one of Sherlock’s many phones. “He’ll want this back, I imagine.”

Joan makes a laughing sound, devoid of any real amusement. “So the ‘break in the case?’”

“A minor fabrication,” she confesses unrepentantly, then cocks her head at Joan’s frown. “Well I had to find _some_ way to see you,” she admits and reaches for a bottle of champagne, chilling in an ice bucket. The bar inside the limo rivals the one in the club. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Joan shuffles in her seat. “I haven’t been avoiding you.” She has. 

“No, I understand the inclination,” Moriarty says in a voice that would have been sympathetic coming from anyone else. “Especially after _everything_. But, I couldn’t very well leave without saying goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” her voice betrays her confusion and she accepts the thin stemmed champagne glass from Moriarty without thinking. Outside a group of women bustle past the car, and Joan realises they haven’t moved from the curb.

“Sherlock must have told you that I was leaving for Europe.”

“He uh,” Joan shuts her eyes for a second. A deep baseline echoes from the club. She feels it in her veins, along with the tequila from that last margarita, which she’s beginning to think might have been a mistake. “He mentioned something.”

“Well, your NYPD can’t do anything about the Interpol situation, but I may have a… contact.” It’s said with a sly quirk of lips and she sips on her champagne, which is when Joan becomes aware of the pretty crystal glass in her own hands.

“What is this?” she brings the pinkish bubbly liquid to her nose. “I don’t want it.”

“Try it. It’s a favourite of mine.”

“I’ve already had too much. Besides, Sherlock-”

“Is safe and sober at the station with your friend Detective Bell. I brought it especially to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Joan takes a tentative sip of the champagne. It tastes heady and sweet.”

“Why, the culmination of a successful partnership of course.”

“We don’t have a partnership,” Joan says quickly. “There is no,” she waves a hand between them, “partnership.”

“I was referring to my association with your law enforcement.”

“A stupid arrangement, if you ask me.”

“I suppose you’re not interested in my toast then?”

“No.” She’s warm. In a way that makes her skin feel like it’s tingling and her organs like they’re radiating heat. Part of her wants to get out,  _out_. But she doesn’t move. “Why the limousine?”

“Well, that was incidental.” Moriarty sips her drink slowly.  “I’ve come from a meeting. The car is borrowed.” Her attire suggests there’s some truth in this. Her teal satin shirt is tucked into a charcoal pencil skirt. A thin blazer lies discarded over one of the couches, because really, they're more than seats. Moriarty’s undone her first four buttons, presumably after the meeting, and Joan thinks she looks like a stripper posing as a banker, or maybe the other way round.

The rest of the story is not wholly far-fetched either. She _has_ been helping them. A “confidant” as the Feds had put it. A condition of her release was that she share information. Of course this somehow led her to helping the NYPD. Something about providing a public service. Joan thinks her “consulting” is all bullshit smoke and mirrors half the time, but Jamie Moriarty flits in and out of their lives unchecked now. It’s annoying at the best of times, infuriating at the worst. 

And it’s generally been a case of the latter since they started fucking.

Joan doesn’t remember how it started. It may have been one late night when they were alone at the brownstone, going over witness statements from a long ago case. It might have been that morning Joan had dropped off files at Moriarty’s hotel room and left three hours later. It could have been a rainy afternoon holed up in Joan’s bedroom while Sherlock was at his apiculture conference.

It doesn’t matter how it started. All she knows now is the fever, the delirium. Joan’s convinced she’s lost her mind. She knows this is insanity. There’s no other explanation.

“When are you leaving?”

“Two hours at most. I’m afraid I haven’t much time.” To do what, she doesn’t say, but the implication lies heavy on the soft leather seat between them. “And then…” she offers up her most tragic expression, “Well I doubt we’ll have cause to see each other again.”

 Joan downs the expensive bubbly drink in one unsophisticated gulp and hands the glass back to Moriarty. “I guess that’s cause to celebrate.”

“You wound me, Joan,” but it’s said without conviction and Joan rolls her eyes.

“You don’t expect me to believe you enjoyed your glorified community service?”

“I enjoyed… elements of it.” She downs her own drink and licks her lips.

“Okay,” Joan looks away and out of the window. There are crowds outside, sacrificing their souls to the god of Friday night. “Whatever. I’m just glad you’re leaving.” And she is. Simple logic tells her that the absence of one Jamie Moriarty means the end of whatever madness they’ve been indulging in.  

 Unfazed, Jamie-because it’s Friday night and they’re in the backseat of a limo and  _Moriarty_ feels a tad too formal- pushes a button on one of the armrests, and speaks in fluent Serbian to the driver, who remains a mysterious (and apparently Eastern European) figure behind the tinted partition. In a second, the ignition turns on with a low rumble, but the car doesn’t move.

“Where are we going?” Joan tugs on her dress, self-consciously. 

“Anywhere you’d like. Unless of course you’d like a ride to the station. I can’t imagine you’d want to show up there after…” she raises her eyebrows and Joan says,

“What is this? The limo, the text, why-”

Jamie leans forward, completely destroying that little personal space Joan had saved for herself. “Call it one for the road.” Eyes flicker from lashes to lips and she looks about to say more, but Joan reaches out first. Tired of the meaningless conversations and heated innuendoes.

Jamie’s hair is a tumble of artful waves over her shoulders and it’s easy to wrap those waves around her fingers and tug.

Her yelp of surprise is undeniably satisfying, though not quite as satisfying as the ragged whimper of anticipation she makes the second before Joan’s mouth crashes against hers. And it is a crash. It’s a storm, a collision. It’s violent and wanting, an eruption of simmering tension and heat.  _Every time_. And sometimes, when it’s over, Joan wonders how all of it fit inside of her, and how much more there’s left to give before she burns herself out.

She’s found her way into Jamie’s lap - Joan’s knees on either side of her. Jamie’s fingers dig into her hips as she yanks her closer until there is only the memory of space between their bodies.

A sharp intake of breath, wrapped up in a four letter word as Joan bites down on the vulnerable flesh between neck and shoulder. Jamie’s skin is bitter and salty, perfume and sweat.

She tangles her fingers in silky black hair and forces Joan's head back, waiting for unfocused pupils to find hers.

“Will you miss me?” she asks with a dark, searching expression.

And Joan cants her hips forward, “Not even for a second.”

Jamie’s red stained mouth splits into a toothy grin that shows off her dimples and makes her look deceptively innocent, as if she doesn’t currently have her hands all over Joan’s ass. “Liar.”

Joan takes that bottom lip between her teeth and tugs the grin off her face.

“I’ll miss  _you_ , Watson,” she mumbles into Joan’s mouth as her fingers move to toy with the hem of Joan’s dress. “I’ll miss you and our time spent together.”

Joan kisses her hard, stealing air from her lungs until they burn, shutting her up, making her moan. She doesn’t want to be missed. She doesn’t want to be remembered.

Jamie pulls out of the kiss and licks at Joan’s upper lip with a pointed tongue. “The taste of you.”

She cups Joan though soaked fabric. “The feel of you.” A dozen stars burn hot behind Joan’s eyes and she gasps.   

 " _Fuck_.”

“In a minute, darling.” As her teeth scrape bluntly against Joan’s jaw, Jamie breathes, “I want to savour this.

Somewhere in the distance, the beat has changed to something fast paced and sexual, and while Beyoncé’s asking the driver roll up the partition, Joan’s eyes flutter shut.

“Are you sure?” Jamie’s wet fingertips coax out a ragged sigh. “That you won’t miss me?”

“Sto-,” Joan shudders, trying to remember how to form letters into words into sentences into coherent speech. The best she comes up with it, “Stop talking. Just fu-”

Jamie slides two curved fingers inside and sucks Joan’s scream into her mouth.

And the car’s suddenly moving, or maybe it’s just that the world has started spinning inside of her. Jamie in her mouth, in her cunt, in her blood. 

She rocks into Jamie’s lap as if trying to absorb her. It’s a ridiculously intimate position, but still, not enough, not quite enough, never enough and Jamie suddenly tears at the collar of Joan’s dress, down, over her lacy bra, which she pushes up, exposing Joan’s breast as one would rid a plum from its skin. Her mouth abandons Joan’s trembling mouth in favour of a taut nipple, which she sucks greedily, as if she would die without it, as if she’s been starving for days and only just found sustenance.

Joan’s movements grow frantic and uncoordinated as she grinds herself against the heel of Jamie’s palm, which maintains a steady rhythm against her clit. Her fingers dig into Jamie’s shoulders, anchoring herself to this world, lest she become unhinged and fly off her axis.

 _Yes_ , Joan breathes and then,  _fuckfuckfuck._  And they sway slightly to the left and they’re definitely moving, so why can Joan still hear that beat inside her head?

And Jamie pulls her mouth off Joan’s breast to watch her face. Eyes screwed shut, head thrown back, the tips of her hair brushing against Jamie’s spread knees like something off a Modigliani canvas.

And suddenly Joan finds herself displaced, lifted and pushed back into the plush leather. The loss of Jamie’s fingers inside of her is a profound thing. “I… wha-?” Lust has transformed her into a helpless animal - blind and searching.

In a second, Jamie’s on her knees and Joan finds her own being eased apart.

“I want my mouth on you.”

In a desperate haze that seems to mirror Joan’s, Jamie pushes Joan’s dress up and dips her head.

It’s not an unfamiliar image. But still somehow manages to be shockingly erotic. Pleasure, white and hot thrums through Joan's body, like a bowstring and she arches up off the seat. Jamie’s eyes flicker up for a moment, filled with reverie, blurred with pleasure and there is an almost tangible crack of current in the space between their shared gaze.

They hit a bump and the champagne bottle, which Jamie had precariously placed on a polished edge, falls with a thump, spilling all over the carpeted floor.

 “You smell like peaches,” Jamie murmurs against Joan’s belly, before licking her way down and Joan wants to tell her it’s the champagne, but all that she manages is a strangled gasp as Jamie laps and sucks, tongue rough against heated flesh, imbibing the taste of her. 

Pleasure is thick and slow, a river of magma. It courses through Joan and the world narrows until every thought, every feeling is corrupted by  _want._  Pulsing blood, heart, cunt. A broken refrain of pleas and prayers to some pagan god fills their warm, sultry cocoon.

 _Fuck_ , Joan breathes, and then  _yesyesyes_. Fingers bruising the insides of her thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. She breaks apart against Jamie’s open mouth, with Jamie’s name trapped in her throat.

Breath and heat and everything unsaid.

And then Jamie’s climbing up her body like some sleek jungle cat, all quivering limbs and unsated appetite. She offers her mouth, wet and glistening and Joan kisses her as if it were as necessary as breathing. Jamie straddles her thigh, drenched and hot and trembling, desperately seeking her own release. She comes within seconds, with a shudder and a choked sob.

It could be seconds, hours, or maybe the length of a pop song before Joan realises they’ve stopped again.

“Where are we?” Her voice is an echo against the smooth pale skin of Jamie’s clavicle.

“Home,” comes the breathless reply.

Joan turns her head to the window and they are indeed just outside the brownstone. She finds herself fighting the desire to ask Jamie inside. But she doesn't because this is it. This is all they get. She knows this. And on some level,  Joan is relieved.

Jamie’s gaze is trained on her face as she remarks, “You look surprised.”

“I didn’t think-” she shakes her head with a self-deprecating smile. “You know what, never mind.” She nods her head towards the house. “Thank you.”

Jamie’s mouth purses in amusement as she says “You're welcome, Joan.” As if Joan had just thanked her for pouring her a cup of tea. 

Neither comments on the fact that Jamie’s still draped over Joan’s exposed thigh, nor that Joan’s pretty black dress is now a bunched up belt of cotton and lace around her waist.

Within seconds Joan’s dressed and looks slightly less like she’s been mauled by a mountain lion. Over the past two years, she’s become increasingly adept at putting clothes on in very little time. Jamie watches the entire process with lazy fascination, hardly bothering to pull down her down skirt.

“So,” Joan finally looks at her, and smiles a small smile that might be the closest she’s come to feeling any sort of real affection for this strange and terrible woman across from her. “Goodbye, I guess.” And Jamie doesn’t smile, but inclines her head, studying Joan with those cobalt eyes of hers, darker than usual in the dim backseat light.

It’s only when Joan reaches for the handle of the car door that Jamie says, “Watson, wait-” she bites down on her bottom lip (licked clean of all lipstick at this point) as if contemplating her next words. Joan watches this struggle, this desperate grasp for meaning. She recognises it, because it’s the same thing she feels, clashing about inside of her. And she doesn’t want Jamie’s words. She doesn’t want to make this into something it can’t ever be. So she leans in and kisses her.

It’s soft and fragile and everything they're not.

It’s goodbye.

 When she pulls back, Jamie’s face is a tableau of dazed confusion. Of everything left unsaid.

Joan pulls at the handle and opens the door, and crisp air rushes in, chasing out the smell of sex and champagne. She turns around once she’s out, around to face Jamie.

“Next time you use Sherlock’s phone, you should omit the uppercase letters. He never uses caps.”

Jamie’s brows set in confusion. “You knew? You knew I had sent the text and you came out anyway?”

Joan’s expression is the equivalent of _Duh_.

And Jamie says, with a sort of breathless wonder, “Why?”

Joan’s shrug is careless, her smile faint. “One for the road, right?”

And there’s a moment of understanding before Jamie nods. “Right.” She smiles then, a seemingly genuine smile and says, “Take care of yourself, Joan.”

Joan wants to say it back, but she’s not sure if telling Jamie to look after herself is implicitly endorsing her empire of blood and crime, so she just says, “Thanks.” And before she can think about it anymore, it’s over.

The slam of a car door, the rumble of the ignition. It’s over.

And Joan is left standing on the steps of the brownstone, watching the car disappear, wondering why the air still smells like peaches.

 


End file.
